


Awkward Fit

by okbutjusthisonce



Series: RFU [14]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, M/M, Omega John, Omega Verse, kinky omega, mustard, out of control alpha
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-16
Updated: 2013-12-16
Packaged: 2018-01-04 19:43:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1084967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okbutjusthisonce/pseuds/okbutjusthisonce
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You know, Mr. Holmes, they’re doing wonderful things with suppressants these days.” says Mrs. Harris eyeing the springy bulge beneath her handiwork.</p><p>“My-” Sherlock clears his throat and focuses. “My omega’s pregnant. With multiples.” he says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Awkward Fit

Sherlock's tailor is a discreet old bird, nevertheless she can't resist raising a little eyebrow when she crouches to measures his inseam. Of course, she's not entirely surprised, he is here for alterations after all.

"I can have this pair done in about an hour," she says, "then at least you'll be more comfortable. You can pick up the others on Monday.”

Sherlock nods slightly, both his body and ego grateful for her professionalism.

"Would you like to wait here? Have a spot of tea?"

"No thank you, I've a few errands to run."

She looks at him with the strict demeanour of a house mother.

"You'll borrow a pair of trousers then. It's not healthy to wear your clothes so tight, Mr. Holmes." Sherlock feels the very rare sensation of a blush creeping into his face.

"That's very kind of you, Mrs. Harris."

Wandering around Bloomsbury, Sherlock breathes in cool autumn air. The borrowed trousers are actually quite freeing and he finds himself relaxed in a way he hasn’t been for months. He has no real task but to take a break from his loved crazed, inflammatory, extremely pregnant omega.

It is almost impossible now for Sherlock to not think about him every minute, to obsess over his well being, to be anything other than hot and bothered to his core while he does so. Pondering these very ideas, Sherlock often omits his omega’s name when he can, to maintain some level of control. It doesn’t always help.

The British Museum is one of his few places of sanctuary, and Sherlock finds himself looking through endless halls of Roman artifacts. Mentally cataloging old coins is an excellent way to come back to himself, and he is busy and contented until he sees the statue.

It looks nothing like him. Sherlock tells himself it is ridiculous, that there is only the most cursory of resemblances to John(John John John John!). Despite his best efforts, the buzzing in his brain, hands, and - of course- his loins is back. Torment is back, overwhelming desire and a strange kind of giddy joy are back. The borrowed trousers are no longer lovely and free.

In the the lavatory he is dismayed at the sheer size of his cock. Its thickness verges on the edge of unreal. Things are definitely out of control, he thinks as he begins stroking his engorged flesh. Carnal bliss or no, they're hitting some tipping point that could use some mediation. Certainly he’s uncomfortable most of the time. Certainly this can’t go on.

Sherlock takes a second lap through the halls, this time carefully avoiding any Roman youth. He makes the mistake of wandering into ancient Greece. Following another trip to the toilet he’s quickly on his way back to Mrs. Harris.

“There, how’s that feel?” She asks, tugging the fabric smoothly into place.

“Yes, that’s very good.” He answers as calmly as he can. He's still agitated. He wants to be home, he needs to get home, he’s beginning to feel not just amorous longing but a deeply anxious draw back to Baker Street. He can feel his heart pounding. Is he alright, left home alone? What if something happens, if he needs help, if someone comes...?

“You know, Mr. Holmes, they’re doing wonderful things with suppressants these days.” says Mrs. Harris eyeing the springy bulge beneath her handiwork.

“My-” Sherlock clears his throat and focuses. “My omega’s pregnant. With multiples.” he says. He is pleased with how smoothly the statement comes out of him. He’s practiced it several times, compartmentalising the sentence in his mind, rendering the words meaningless. Disconnected from himself, safe and far away from his alpha and his kink, the sentence is nothing to him. It exists for the rare occasion when he has to talk about this aspect of his life to other people; when he needs to excuse himself.

"Oh, how lovely! Congratulations." She says, and shakes her head with new understanding.

Somehow Mrs Harris manages to convey sympathy for his tortured state with her body language even as she celebrates his life's happiness verbally.

"Thank you." He says to both completely legitimate sentiments.

"How many is he having then?"

Sherlock opens his mouth slightly and stops. He is completely unprepared; he wasn't expecting a _follow up_ question. Said question is a broken quick release cable. He's reflexively summoned the answer front and center and it has weight, even if the last thing he said did not. A melange of images, ideas and ever dreaded sentiment come crashing down like so much heavy cargo.

The Roman youth smiles sensuously at him, John's scent fills his nostrils as his body swells and his hands roam lovingly - all behind Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock attempts to curtail the disaster in his brain and meets blackness instead.

"Mr. Holmes! Mr. Holmes!"  Sherlock peels his eyes open. Mrs. Harris is leaning over him, looking down with deep concern.

"I'm alright." Sherlock Says pulling himself to his feet.

"Are you sure? Passing out usually means one is not alright."

"Yes, really I'm fine, but I must go now. Thank you very much. The rest on Monday you say..."

****

+++

****

"How did it go at the tailors?" John asks from the other room.

"Yes, yes, fine." Sherlock impatiently slides his coat off and hurries for his lab. He wants to analyse the condiment samples he's gathered and not talk such boring stuff.

A few minutes later, he's looking at mustard with a very odd molecular structure when he hears John come in behind him. Sherlock doesn't look up from the microscope. What he's seeing is not Coleman's, and quite likely the murder weapon.

It occurs to him that he knows the solution to not just the case before him but to two others he's been struggling with as well. Excited he begins to send a text to Lestrade. How he's managed to miss such obvious-

"Did you get the takeaway?" John's voice comes from the doorway behind.

Sherlock's nose twitches involuntarily. There is a strange, intoxicating scent that almost makes him want to sneeze. He punches in the next line of his message, while running through his mental catalog of strange, intoxicating scents.

"No." he says moving from phone back to microscope. "I need to borrow your laptop, John, and possibly your nose."

"You're working a case?"

"Three, in fact. Why you should sound so surprised will be number four. As I do not eat when working, I'd like to suggest the onus is on you to - what is- do you smell that?" He sits up with a sneeze, spins round in agitation.

John. John but... Pregnant. Heavily. Absurdly pregnant, absurdly big. Standing before him in terrible clothes; an oversized white t-shirt and an undersized navy blue track suit. Hands on his lower back. The strange, intoxicating, lovely scent is coming from him.

Sherlock can feel the confusion on his own face.

"You...you're....when did..."

"When did I what?" John can't tell what Sherlock is focused on; the stare directed at his belly is not the normal enraptured look. "Get this shirt? Mark's cousin brought it from America. It's their XXXL, and it's very comfortable!" John rubs his belly in emphasis, pushing towards Sherlock. He looks at Sherlock more carefully.

"Are you alright? Sherlock? Sher-!"

Sherlock has dropped to the floor with an odd sound, hands between his legs. He crumples over, moaning at the shocking intensity of his own erection. He looks up at John's alarmed voice. The view of John's gravid form from below is anything but helpful. Sherlock drops his head down with a soft whimper.

"John..." He manages to get out as darkness consumes him, "I think I made a small miscalculation..."

****

+++

****

"Don't touch it!" Sherlock growls, batting John's hands away from his aching cock. He pulls a pillow onto his face and moans in frustration.

For the first time in weeks, he's curled upon the couch instead of John. He's blacked out twice in one day now, this can't be good.

"Okay, okay, sorry. Besides your overwhelmingly large and apparently painful erection... headache?"

"Splitting. My head is splitting open."

"Dizzy, fainting...that's been made obvious. How's your heart?"

"Palpitating." moans Sherlock into the pillow.

John lumbers off and returns with some paracetamol and a bundle of ice.

"Put this between your legs."

"I don't think that's a good-"

Sherlock gasps and arches his back as John shoves his thighs apart and firmly but gently applies the pack. There is a moment of terrible pain which begins to subside as it's replaced with the ice's numbing effect and an underlying desire for contact. He rocks his hips softly under John's touch with a soft moan.

"Alpha Priapism... Textbook. Naturally brought on by overstimulation and/or stress. But when we see it at the clinic it’s usually artificial; the result of an overdose of synthetics." Says John. He gives the pills to Sherlock. "What's the last thing you remember?"

"The tailor's... No... A boy in a chiton..."

"What?"

"John."

"What?"

"Are you... having my child?"

There is a dreadful pause in which Sherlock thinks he may have guessed wrong.

He pulls the pillow from his face to peek at John. John looks confused, upset. Suspicious even. Still huge. Still overwhelming to behold. Also, there are two of him along with everything else, so Sherlock shuts his eyes again.

"Are you joking? Sherlock..."

"We have other children, don't we."

"Christ, we've got loads of them. You're really serious?"

Sherlock opens one eye cautiously.

"How many?" He asks John.

"You tell me."

There is a pause as Sherlock reaches past the headache for the answer. His thoughts are fragmented.

"Five?"

"Ok you've got memory loss. This is not good. Any weakness in the limbs, trouble seeing?"

"I did not have a stroke."

"Stick your tongue to one -."

"I know what's wrong!" Sherlock snaps.

John crosses his arms. Looks down at Sherlock with irritation and concern.

"I - I had some trouble earlier today and I thought the best way to deal with it was to tidy up a few things here and there..." Even as he's saying it, an understanding comes over John.

"Are you telling me," he growls with sudden anger, "that you've deleted our children?!?!"

"I... No!  Of course not! I...I just needed a break from...from..." Sherlock opens his other eye, shuts it again fast. "well maybe a little?"

"It can't be a little, Sherlock, this is serious. You either remember or you don't!"

"Well give me a moment, will you? It hurts to talk just now."

John sighs and manages to lower himself onto the couch by Sherlock's half curled legs.

"I can't decide if you should go to hospital or not," he says. "Memory loss is pretty bad, but then again, it's you. Deleting bits of reality left and right."

"Not... deleted… just filed away I think… I just wanted to get on top of things. This alpha business."

"You see how well that’s worked out."

Sherlock moans into his pillow again.

“Is it always this bad? I can’t think, John. What you’re doing to me... your scent, your voice. I can’t even look at you!”

There is a pause and some movement, John repositioning himself with a sigh.

“It’s more extreme this time.” he says “Because we’re having so many at once...”

“How many?”

“What you said before... five.”

Sherlock shudders and moans as an uncomfortable surge of lust hits him. His thick cock twitches under the ice. He is almost sure it's just swollen yet again, but the sensation of numbed pain and lust is too confusing for him to process. He fleetingly wonders if the combination is what John means when he describes labor. It doesn't seem very nice...

“Sherlock..."

"What."

"I need you to list them... Our children..."

Sherlock takes a deep breath into his pillow. It smells like John.

"Ben and Martin."

"Yeah, how old?"

"Seven..."

"Alright, and after that?"

"Una, Lucy, Conan... Six..."

"Keep going love, you're doing very well."

"Arthur...  Abbey... Five and four..."

"And then?"

"Then we did the sensible thing and took a break."

"And yet it was you who literally threw my pills out the window..."

"Right onto Baker Street. Leading to Robert, Rupert, Jude, aged two..."

"The little terrors..."

"Mandy... Twenty months... "

"Our surprise baby girl..."

"Jeremy and Edward, ten months..."

"Yeah, ok..." Sighs John with great relief.

They sit in silence.

"Your body's ready for this one to be over." Says John after a moment. "It's- you're probably close to inducing me..."

"To do what?" Mutters Sherlock into the pillow. He's slipped back into a quasi relaxed state, his thoughts wandering back to genetically modified mustard. He pulls the pillow from his face; he wants to get up and work...

"... John? "

"Did you just forget again!?!" John scowls at the perplexed expression on Sherlock's face.

Sherlock squints. Swallows at the sight of John. His cock twitches painfully.

"Yes... but I've...I've got it agian, I think. Five, right?"

“On the way… five on the way…”

Sherlock nods gravely. “John I - I can’t- you’re so -”

“I think your kink is making this worse.”

Sherlock gasps a little, he has no memory of… of…

John's face is soft with understanding.

“I know all about it, love. I know, it’s okay, you know, even better than okay, it’s great…”

John pulls his shirt up, grabs Sherlock’s hands and moves them to the surface of his stomach. Sherlock shudders uncontrollably, as though shaking with terror. This half forgotten reality surpasses his half neglected dreams. He thinks he may just pass out again.

“I love you.” Says John, moving Sherlock’s hands around his belly in slow circles, “I love that you made me like this, filled me with your babies, I love swelling and growing, getting bigger everyday. I love being like this."

Sherlock’s breathing is ragged, he gasps again as John tosses the pillow away, straddles Sherlock’s body heavily.

“John…” Sherlock whispers in a near panic. His thumb moves over the bump that used to be John's navel and his heart pounds. It's beating too hard he thinks…surely this can’t be the normal state of his life - yet he has thirteen - oh god - he thinks - and five more - oh god - Sherlock moans loudly.

“I love that you love me like this, how much it turns you on, it turns me on too. I love how crazy it gets you. That turns me on most of all…”

Sherlock groans, his hands have taken to roaming over John’s belly on their own, leaving John’s to explore Sherlock’s body.

“Close your eyes again.” says John, and Sherlock obeys. There is a dizzying erotic confusion to the next minute or so as his mind begins to forget, but his hands and body feel, and he hears John whimpering omega-ish words to him submissively.

“I want to be like this for you all the time, I want you to get me pregnant… please… please… make me pregnant, make me grow. I want to be huge and helpless with your offspring, Sherlock…”

“Yes…” Sherlock hears himself whisper, “oh god…John...you don’t know...”

“I do… I want to have dozens of your children, want to be yours and yours alone, want everyone to see me swell, watch me get pregnant over and over. I want everyone to think we've gone too far, had too many, should stop, won’t stop. I want them to feel uncomfortable because I'm always carrying loads of your babies. I want you to make my belly big and then display me, make the world think about how virile you are, what an alpha you are, how often, how much you fuck and burden me. I want you to breed me like an animal… again and again…”

“John… John... I want -" The alpha in him that's been locked away roars deep within him, demands release.

Sherlock realizes John is guiding Sherlock inside himself. There is a moment of genuine difficulty due to Sherlock’s size.

“Fuck, you’re big.” curses John reflexively under his breath. He brings himself down, his body momentarily stretching wide.

John’s sharp intake of breath and the overwhelming sensation of entering tight, warm flesh cause Sherlock’s eyes to snap open.

John is gasping, and he is suddenly, hugely, obscenely pregnant, practically bursting with Sherlock's offspring, his enormous belly nearly meeting Sherlock’s face. Riding Sherlock - John is swelling and panting, writhing with strained pleasure on Sherlock’s over-stimulated, too-swollen cock, much to Sherlock’s orgasmic surprise.

+++

“Better?” asks John. He begins to pull his ill fitting track pants back on.

Sherlock nods wordlessly, he thinks he may have seen god just now. He manages to smile, his eyes sliding shut in post-coital bliss.

“I love you.” He murmurs.

“I love you too… and… I think it will be okay if we can just make it through the coming weeks… I’m sure we’re both experiencing hormonal spikes… being so close to the end...”

“Mmmm… what?” asks Sherlock after a minute. He doesn’t know what hormones and mustard seeds have to do with one another. Not knowing something agitates him. He opens an eye. A soft growl escapes him.

John looks down at Sherlock’s newly frenzied state.

“It’s going to be a long night, isn’t it?” He says.

“Eighteen!” cries Sherlock in disbelief. "Mine!" He roars triumphantly. He reaches out, growling with blissful desire.

 

  
  
  
  



End file.
